


Infoldment

by MG12CSI16



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MG12CSI16/pseuds/MG12CSI16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Once upon a time there was a soldier, and he did everything a good solider was supposed to do." In which it's raining in London, John Watson receives a phone call, and the world never actually stopped turning. Post Fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infoldment

It was raining in London, but then again when wasn't it?

I was late this morning, my shift at the hospital starting almost an hour ago. My supervisor was surely pissed. I glanced back, not able to see my car anymore and for that I was somewhat thankful. It was a useless hunk of metal after all.

I had told Sarah that I didn't need the car but after weeks of trying to ration with and convince me I gave in. It wasn't a nice car, obviously, but it got me places and the cost was something that didn't make me physically ache when I saw it. The smile on her face had been somewhat of a reward as well, she hadn’t looked like that in what felt like years.

While we weren't exactly a couple we were much closer than we had ever been before. With the absence in the flat, her company was welcomed with few words, just a general understanding that I needed her and she was more than willing to be there. She was the only one who could really withstand the nightmares anyways.

As I stomped through a puddle of murky water I heard my cellphone chiming, cutting through the tapping of the rain as the pellets impacted the concrete. I wrestled it from my coat pocket, assuming of course it was the hospital wondering where on God's earth I was. Flipping it open I pressed it firmly against my ear.

"I'll be there in ten minutes, no one worry. Just a bit of car trouble."

"What?" A confused voice drifted through the receiver and my eyebrows quirked.

"Uh, who is this?" I asked, trying my best to sound like I still had at least half of the patience I started with this morning.

"John." the voice ground out that one simple word and suddenly the world stopped. I knew who it was. I wondered why I didn't recognize it before.

"Sherlock," I deadpanned, trying not to sound surprised even though I felt like my chest would burst. My heart was racing and rain was clinging to my eyelashes. I wiped my face and my hand lingered over my mouth.

"Yes, John, who else would it be?" I really hoped he was joking, because I wasn't sure if I had an answer.

"How are you?" he asked when the silence had yet to cease. I had half a mind to just hang up the phone then.

"You know, Sherlock, I don't exactly see where you come off asking that. It's been what, six months now? That right jumped off the roof with you."

Another sigh escaped him. "John please, be rational about this." 

I laughed, but it was cold and short and there was little emotion hidden within it.

"Rational? I'm talking to a supposed dead man and you're asking me to be rational? Oh, Sherlock Holmes, you are as crazy as they say!"

"John, I'm sorry-"

"No." I cut him off sharply, the hand not occupying the phone balling into a tight fist. "I don't have time for apologies, Sherlock. And if you're calling to see how we're all doing than I can assure you we're fine. We're all fine and dandy."

I hear him shift the phone and draw in a deep breath. "You don't sound fine."

"Sherlock, please, I don't have time for these games. If you want me to accept your apology, then fine, I accept. But you really can't think that you can just walk back into our lives and go on like nothing's happened, can you? We mourned you, Sherlock. I felt your pulse, or the lack of one. You were dead and I watched you bleed and now I'm having this conversation with you and I'm wondering just how fucking crazy I really am!" My breaths are ragged and my lungs are burning. For the first time I notice I'm jogging across the sidewalk now instead of walking. Angry footsteps pound into the ground. A steady beat playing a symphony with the rain.

"I'm sorry, John." He's insistent, but he wouldn't be Sherlock if he wasn't. I purse my lips as I feel some of the cold hatred that encases my heart melt away. I've waited for what feels like an eternity to hear this voice again.

"Where are you?" I asked, almost crazy to think I'd receive a real answer.

"I'm afraid I can't say." That. That was what I was waiting for. I knew that's how this was going to go. He would call and wait until he had gotten through the wall I had put up, and then he would pull the rug out from under my feet.

"Of course you can't. How do I know you're really alive? What if I'm just crazy and imaging all of this?" Sherlock laughs and it's such a beautiful sound that digs deep in my skin, working its way into my veins and raising me up like a drug.

"Do you think you're crazy, John?" There's a pause.

"I don't know. I wonder occasionally but I've never been able to find the answer." I can visualize him smiling at me. I wonder if _he_ thinks I'm crazy.

"So, what could I possibly do that could ever make you forgive me?" I groaned loudly as my boot splashed through another puddle and beads of water flew into the air. He makes things so much more difficult than they really are.

"Can I tell you a story Sherlock?” The idea comes to me suddenly, like a bullet to the head it hits me before I have a chance to realize it. There’s silence on his end of the phone and I can see him now, nose crinkled and brows furrowed. It was a strange question after all.

“Alright,” he agrees, having taken a few seconds to process the request.

I sighed. “Well, once upon a time there was a soldier, and he did everything a good soldier was supposed to do. He fought, protected his country, and wrote letters home when he got the chance. He healed those who were wounded and he prayed with those who had questioned their faith. He did every damn thing a good soldier was supposed to do.”

“John, I really don’t see-“

“Ah, don’t interrupt. You might miss something important,” I chastised. “Anyways, one day the war was over, or at least it was for the soldier. He made the journey back home, with the scars and memories to show for it. The limp and the nightmares were things he had learned to accept, they were reminders. And one day the soldier decided to take a walk in the park where he met an old friend. And for whatever crazy reason he had mentioned the need for a new flat.  And this… revelation, if you will, took him all the way to the hospital where he meets the world’s only consulting detective.”

“You can see where this is going, can’t you?” I asked, I wanted to be sure he was hearing all of this. There’s a small mutter of acknowledgement on Sherlock’s end and I can tell I’ve made my mark already.

 “So, this ‘detective’ as he calls himself, well he’s a bit mad as they say. Fixates on the smallest details he does, and he smart. Deathly smart. Well for whatever reason the two bond quite quickly, it’s unnatural really. They solve cases and learn each other’s quirks. They rely on each other. Symbiosis if you will. But one day, things change and the lives of these two friends become a game. They run and they fight and they try so hard to hold on to their last bit of sanity that by the end they know they’re playing for the losing team. And then, the detective makes a decision. The battle ground is empty, just the two of them, the detective and the king, and there are only so many moves left. There’s blood, sweat, and tears, and then the soldier gets a phone call, much like this one.”

“John.” The tremolo in his voice is nerve racking and I almost break down and apologize, but I can’t bring the words to leave my lips. He needs to hear it. _I_ need to hear it.

“No, no, we’re near the end now. The detective, he’s talking and he’s saying all these things that just don’t make sense. The soldier knows the outcome but for some reason he watches anyways. The rest is a blur to him and there’s blood and crying, denial and anger. A funeral and a grave, more nightmares and a hollow shell of what used to be that soldier. And I think that’s what people don’t realize, that the soldier died that day too. He was never going to be the same, he couldn’t be.”

Sherlock sighs heavily. “What was the moral of this story, John?”

“The moral,” I spat, “is that you can’t expect to just leave and think no one around you is going to suffer the consequences. You were wrong when you said you only had one friend Sherlock.” I could see the hospital now from where I stood, across the block at an intersection.

I take a step forward just as Sherlock speaks. “You know I didn’t _want_ to do it. It wasn’t for my own selfish purposes, it was for you.”

“Well I’m glad we’ve cleared that up, but- “I never finished the sentence, the words had become caught in my throat as the world rushed in around me. It was like floating.

And then suddenly I'm in the park, on the wooden bench where Sherlock and I had last sat together, able to live like normal people away from all the fear and the desperation. Life had still been a game but we weren't the pawns. We had been so content, so in control.

He's here now, watching me from the corner of his eye. He looks peaceful, happy even. His hair is no longer matted with blood and his eyes aren't glazed like they last were. He finally turns his head to look at me before he smiles.

"Hello, John." He greets me like we're old friends, and technically we were. But the thought was nothing but an old fairytale and it's enclosed in the old and withered pages of a story book that's been read one too many times. It’s faded.

"What are we doing here?" My voice had taken on a panicked tone but Sherlock was calm, his face was stoic and he smiled gently, ignoring my question.

"What's the one thing you want in life John? What could make you happy?"

"You," I answer without hesitation. He smiles again, just a simple quirk of the lips. It tells me more than his words could.

"You know as well as I do John, that it's just not possible."

Pain has got a grip on me, holding me so tightly it could bruise and all I can see are colors. Like when you close your eyes and the shapes flash and dance around on the black canvas of your eyelids. I try to swallow, to speak. I couldn't hear Sherlock anymore. Just the rain and my own breaths as blood gurgled in my throat. I can't move, I can't speak but I look around and see the silver device a few feet away.

I can hear Sherlock on the other end now, voice muffled by static and the overall panic that consumes him. Over the rain and the roar of blood in my ears I can hear him.

"John? John, are you there? What the hell was that?" He's screaming but I can't answer him, it hurts almost as much as my physical injuries.

There are sirens now, people screaming, and water. Lots of water. The rain is still beating down on the city, on me. It floats through the streets and settles on my clothes, my skin. I close my eyes as another wave of pain crashes into me.

"What is it you want, John?" He keeps asking the same damn question and I shake my head in anger.

"God, I don't know!" Suddenly my mind wanders to Sarah, to Mrs. Hudson and Greg. I can picture Molly and Mycroft and I feel the guilt that weighs me down, I had forgotten them, even if just for a few moments. I breathe heavily and my chest heaves as I look at Sherlock.

"I want them to be alright," I choke out. "All of them. Even you. I want them to be alright."

He watches me with a careful eye. I can tell he knows what I mean. "You're a good man, John." He grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze, much like he did all that time ago when our lives weren't someone’s playground and I had some sort of hope for the future.

Again I'm thrust into the grip of pain, my body quickly becoming numb. The car that hit me is stopped by my side, a frantic man babbling by my head. He's sorry. I am too.

I knew I was in trouble; I could taste the crimson that was swirled in the rainwater, creating a mural on the concrete by my head. I can hear Sherlock, still on the phone and yelling something about sirens and the crunch of metal. I smiled a little, knowing he was still alive, still breathing and able to worry about me the way I worried about him. It’s a bitter thought but it’s true and for that I feel sorry.

He stays on the line longer than I expected him to, whimpering and calling my name. Sometimes he doesn't say anything, but I know he’s there. He wouldn't leave me after all. He was better than that no matter what my broken and scarred heart tried to tell me.

And as I closed my eyes I knew he would keep his promise. If he didn't I would know, and I would make sure to haunt him the way he did me. And that was my last thought. I held on to it as long as I could. And then finally, I saw the sun and the world was able to start turning again.


End file.
